Sunburn: A zombie Novel
by MonsterrHunterr
Summary: This a novel I had written in an hour or two. I'm wondering what people would think of it so I leave it up to you. Do you think I should continue? Tell me in the comment section.


Sunburn

Chapter 1

"...Is only a minor outbreak, we urge residents to stay inside. Board up your windows, and leave all your lights off. Somebody will be along to help you soon." The flickering picture of the President accepted a question from one of the many news people crowded around the podium.

", Do you have a statement reguarding the nature of this germ?" The rabble died down as the group raised their pens and notebooks, awaiting the response.

The President exchanged looks with somebody off camera, then nodded. "The symptoms that people have been reporting have been traced to the mosquito, We believe it is an accelerated form of the West Nile Virus. So to all of you at home, Avoid being bitten at all costs. Up to ninety-five percent of the American race are suceptable to this virus, while the other five percent can only receive it by exchanging bodily fluids of somebody that already carrys the virus."

Sam turned off the TV with a sigh, that was the third time he had watched the program. It had been four months since the Presidents speech, and four months of isolation. Rubbing his temples he tried to dispel the constant headache he had been inflicted with, he tried to decide what to do. He set down his Coke, still unopened and paced about the room. Pacing had become a habit of his, he found the stress dissapeared after several laps around the coffee table.

His food supply had begun to shrink noticably, most lost to expiration but those were eaten anyways. The first few days into the virus Sam had been smart enough to go out and by all the canned, dried, and freezer packed items he could get his hands on. He would either have to go, or content to die alone in his home. He gazed longingly at the old revolver that sat over the fireplace. The fireplace itself was just for show, containing several ceramic logs that never burned.

He wrapped his hands around the revolver's grip, and lifted it free of the hook that held it in place. It was heavier then he thought it would be, his father had been the only one who had handled it and operated it. Only God knew where his father was now, if he was one of the walking corpses or one of the ones that had stayed dead. Fresh tears stung at his eyes, he refused to let them fall even though he was alone, his pride was too big to swallow. After a bit of prying he opened the clockwork chamber, there were six empty chambers.

He placed the gun back on the mantle and thought hard, Did his father ever keep any bullets? If he had they would have been in his room, a place that Sam had left untouched despite his many wanderings about the house. He hesitated at the foot of the stairs, gazing up the narrow passage. Finally he walked slowly up them.

His fathers door was solid white, clean except for a bit of chipped paint. He rested his hand on the handle, slowly gripping the handle. He turned it and pushed the door in, it moved without any sound. He paused at the doorway before padding in on the soft carpet.

The room was fairly plain, half of the opposite wall was made up of a window that overlooked the yard. He couldn't really see the window, it was covered by the black curtains that hung motionless in the dead air. The TV needed dusting, as did the drawers it perched upon. His closet was wide open, letting the smell of memories seep out into the room. The queen sized bed was still made, everything picture perfect. He went over to what had been a drawer for his fathers junk, lifting it slightly to keep it from getting caught on the tracks that lined the drawer.

There were several interesting rocks, and sparkling bits of jewels. There were two and a half cards, and a dozen foreign coins. There was a vacant picture frame, the display was slightly cracked. Scraps of newspaper headings littered a corner, right beside a pair of old movie tickets from 2000. Nestled under the rocks was a crudely carved branch of driftwood, unrecognizable to anybody but the carver. As Sam shifted the picture frame he found a cardboard package, with eighteen .44 magnum shots.

He pocketed the ammo and went to the window. He pulled aside the curtains and counted the Walking Dead (As he called them) in his back yard, there were four shambling around the skirts of his yard. Craning his neck he could see the neighbors yards, which were empty. He had never shot a gun before, but he was sure that eighteen shots for four WD were pretty decent odds. After a quick glance around the room he deemed it to be clean of any more equipment he would need.

He went to his old bedroom (from before he moved into the basement during his teenage years) and pulled open the frosted windows. He could only really see the end of the walkway. He pulled the screen free with a loud snap, and placed the screen behind him on a table. Carefully he lifted himself through the window, he was determined to get a better look at the driveway.

The roof was slick from a recent rainstorm, leaving un reliable footholds for Sam. Clambouring onto the ledge he shuffled slowly towards the front of the house, careful not to send himself tumbling from the roof and leaving him trapped outside his house. After a nerve racking twenty seconds he came to the roof over the garage, he stood slowly. He bit back a shout of terror, reducing it to a startled hiccup. There were around forty WD on the front street, about two or three per house. That settled it, he was going out the back way.

As he made his way back into the house he thought about the situation, walking himself through various courses of action he could take. He figured he could sneak through his own yard, shooting only the four WD and hopping a fence into the neighbors yard parallel to his own yard. Then what? Chewing on the inside of his cheek he decided that their street could not be worse then his own. The other way he could go about it was to get into his jeep, and hope the small vehicle could drive over zombies as well as it could off road. At least with the second way he had a vehicle in his possession, the plan prior left him only with his gun and two feet.

He found himself walking down the stairs, still thinking about what he could do to prolong his life to its furthest extent. Along the way back to the den he looped a pack over his shoulder and started throwing various objects he deemed helpful into the pack. When he reached the den he opened the package of bullets and pulled out six. He placed the package beside the revolver and picked it up instead. He pulled open the chambers and loaded them each, careful to place them facing the right direction. He decided to leave it uncocked at the moment, so he didn't end up shooting himself in the foot.

He scooped the rest of the package into his pocket and went about loading his bag up with essentials. He grabbed five unopened vitamin waters and four Cokes from the fridge, placing them all like bricks atop eachother. He scoured the fridge for half a minute before grabbing a chunck of cheddar wrapped in cling wrap, a package of sausages, and a couple potatos. He wasen't sure how he was going to cook the items so he pocketed some matches in case he couldn't find a stove. He shoved half a loaf of bread into his pack, he figured he still had enough room for another package of something. He settled on bringing three packs of jerky. Before he left the kitchen he went into the drawers and found the biggest knife he could, a chefs knife and tucked it into his empty pocket blade down.

The pack was unsurprisingly heavy, he set it down by the door to the backyard. He jogged to the coat hooks by the front of the door and grabbed a light jacket. As he was fitting his second arm through the sleeve he caught sight of an old walking stick. After a moment of thinking he grabbed it, if nothing it would serve as good kindling. He went back to his pack and looped it over his shoulders, leaning on his stick to help absorb the new weight added to his shoulders. He cocked his revolver and opened the back door.

Only one of the WD noticed him at first, it pointed an accusing finger at him and stumbled in his general direction. Sam raised the revolver to eye level, winking one eye closed and took aim. He pulled the trigger, the revolver smacked him in the face because his grip had not been firm enough. Swearing he felt his nose, it was bloody. The WD had also been hit in the face, but with the bullet and now laid motionless on the ground several yards away. The others in the yard sniffed the air, energized by the smell of blood. Like sharks they locked onto their target, eyes widening as they worked their limbs into motion. Sam dropped his stick and put both hands on the grip, holding it so tightly his knuckles went white. He pulled the hammer back, followed by the trigger, the revolver jumped again this time only a couple inches. He saw one of the WD stagger, but after a breif pause continue to advance upon him. He couldn't make out where he hit the WD but it hadn't been the head, perhaps a shoulder. He cocked the gun and aimed more carefully this time, shooting it straight through an eye. His arms were aching now, shaking slightly. The other two were almost upon him now, he fired two shots panicing, barely cocking the gun in time. The first shot hit its mark, falling a WD cleanly. The second went far over the last ones head, because of the recoil. He readjusted his grip and took a step backwards to give himelf room, he tried to mimic the aim he had done before when he had hit the mark. Cocking the gun he breathed slowly and fired, controlling the recoil carefully.

He dropped his arms, placing the gun in his pocket so he could massage his arms. He touched his stinging nose carefully, glad that nobody had seen his blunder. After a moments recuperation he reached into his pocket and produced six more shots, which he loaded carefully. As he put the last shot into his gun he heard the garden gate snap open, the wire they had used to bind the gate closed had broken as easily as a toothpick. He grabbed his stick off the ground and started towards the opposite fence, ignoring the sounds of the WD making their way around the house towards the scent of blood.

Sam heaved his bag over the fence and climbed carefully so that he was waist level with the top of the fence. He took a fleeting glance over his shoulder, almost a quarter of the neighborhood had made their way into his yard with the rest not far behind. He quickly vaulted over, landing hard in the middle of a flower bed on the other side. Dusting himself off he looked around for his pack, he found it atop the crushed remains of a garden gnome. Shouldering it he walked briskly out of the yard, unlocking the garden gate with a quick flick of his walking stick.

The street beyond was much better then his own, there wasen't a WD in sight. There were only two cars in the street, a red pickup was closest so he made his way towards that. He tossed his bag into the trunk and placed his walking stick likewise, keeping only his gun and knife at hand. He peered inside the passenger side windows, looking for the car keys. They weren't anywhere to be seen, they must have been inside the house.

He looked at the house, there was blood smeared on the insides of the windows that were not covered. There was a shapeless shadow that shifted once his eyes settled upon it, ducking out of view. He looked closer at the window it had been behind, it had left only a bloody claw-like print on the glass. Sam had supposed they had been too slow to leave and were now prisoners inside their own home.

The walkway seemed so much more sinnister with nobody around, and the door made Sam hesitate again. He knocked three times on the door, and backed up a reasonable distance with his magnum raised. After three long minutes there was no movement from inside, so Sam advanced on the door and tried the handle. It turned easily.

He snapped the chain that locked the door with ease, backing off again in case something decided to show itself. It didn't so he advanced into the house, careful to muffle his footsteps the best he could on the hardwood floor. The lights in the house were all out, and the switches didn't work. Sam glanced quickly about the room, taking in the scenery as quickly as he could. He did his best to look in all directions at once, which entailed constant pivotting and shuffling of his feet.

He found the keys on the counter beside a wallet, which he left alone thinking there was probably no need for cash at a time like this. He pocketed the keys and backed slowly out of the house, flashing his gun at any shadows that seemed to shift. There was a creak somewhere near the foor, Sam diverted all his attention to that spot. There was only silence again, he found himself wishing he had brought in the small flashlight he had packed earliar. He passed into the long column of light that the door cast, the rest of the room darkened beyond visibility. Something lurched out of the corner of his eye.

Instinctively Sam whirled around squeezing the trigger, there was a click. He had forgotten to cock the gun. Before he had a chance to correct his mistake he was tackled off his feet by an unseen enemy. His gun went skidding away and his hands went up to protect himself from any attempt at biting him. Instead of a bite a blow rained down, knocking the wind out of him. He struggled with the attacker, attempting to roll them over onto their back to gain the upper ground. He gained leverage off the ground and flipped the attacker onto their back.

Sam pinned them with his legs and wrapped his arm around his body to draw his knife. It hovered an inch above the attackers jugular, they had frozen up in fear of death. Sam could tell they were not a WD as he had thought, and wasn't sure whether he should finish the blow or not. He raised and lowered it several times, unsure of how to proceed. Suddenly something collided with his face.

The attacker had spat on Sam, causing him to recoil in disgust. With their new element of surprise they pushed Sam towards the doorway, fumbling around the ground for the knife or gun. He fell into the light again, blinded temporarily he raised his hands in defense again. He rolled to his feet, looking in all directions for any movement. Finally there was a voice from inside the darkness.

"Hold on.. You aren't one of those zombies." The voice was deep and slow, as if thought went into every word. "What are you doing inside my house?"

Sam took a moment to find his voice, finally speaking. "I was looking for transportation, and your truck was the closest thing."

There was another pause. "I suppose that zombies don't really knock at the door, That was my fault there. Name's Logan."

They stepped into the light, revealing a tall man with a crew cut. Logan looked to be in the military, wearing a olive shirt with khaki pants. He was holding Sam's gun in his right hand, extended to return the weapon to him. His eyes were pale blue, faded with the years.

Sam accepted the gun, and spoke quietly. "I'm Sam, Sam Crowley."

"Where are you headed, Sam?" Logan asked, searching around for Sam's lost knife.

"Not sure yet, I was planning on just driving. Maybe find a safe place to let all this blow over." Sam shrugged.

"I don't think there is any safe place, Sam. I think these zombies are going to everywhere you go, and the best thing to do would be to sit down and stay put." Logan found his knife and handed it to him, handle first.

Sam pocketed the knife, nodding in thanks. "I don't know Logan, I'm going to go crazy just sitting here." He thought hard for a good reason to give him for leaving. "Maybe I will try and find some answers in Washington."

"Now thats an idea. If anybody is still alive it would be the President wouldn't it?" Logan gazed thoughtfully at Sam. "Why don't you stick with me Sam, give me an hour or two to get ready. Safety in numbers they always say."

"Company would be appreciated, I haven't had anybody to talk to in four months." Sam agreed closing the door behind him.

"I'll be quick." Logan promised jogging upstairs to get his things.


End file.
